Tea at Buckingham
by Rhys
Summary: Pete gets involved with protecting the princes of England from assassination, and Kitty gets invited to have tea with the queen! Not only that, but there's a knighthood involved somewhere!
1. One

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Tea at Buckingham

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This doesn't fit into continuity, although it might fit into this story arch that I'm thinking about writing…if that happens, I hope I'll remember to change this so that all of you lovely readers (who are going to review, I just know it) will be able to tell where this fits in, but for now…you'll just have to settle for enjoying it all one its lonesome, sometime or another…either pre-120 or post-make-up between the two best lovebirds this side of Casablanca…

DISCLAIMER: I always forget this bloody thing (oh, thanks Pete, know I'm talking in a British accent!!) so I'm gonna just say that nothing I write that has these people in it belongs to me—they're all Marvel's. Even if they shouldn't be, because they don't take care of them, and don't treat them well, or anything, and screwed this wonderful relationship up because they were canceling a comic and knew that Wisdom and the "yes-men" would never mix, and wanted to send Kitty back to her childhood with Rasputin (uh-huh, right, sure) and Munroe and the professor domineering over her life, and forget that Excalibur ever happened to any of them, especially Kitty…*sigh* I could take much better care of all of them, I promise…if they'd only let me… Instead, I'm stuck writing things that are unofficial and make me no money, and do nothing except attempt to assuage my heartache and disgruntlement…*sigh*…

"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"

"Huh, what?" Kitty Pryde blinked groggily, trying to orient herself. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the pitch-black bedroom. _What the heck is that? _She looked around for the offending noise. _Oh—isn't that Pete's old cellphone?_ Her boyfriend had told Jardine that it had been destroyed in a firefight; instead, he'd wanted Kitty to have a phone that could synch up with the encryption systems used by British Intelligence. Completely illegal, and Jardine would skin him alive if he found out, but that was Pete Wisdom for you. Laws were more than made to be broken, they were intended only to be ignored—at least if there was a good reason. Otherwise, there'd be Hell to pay. Kitty hoped that answering wouldn't get Pete in any trouble, but who in the world would be calling at three in the morning? 

__

Ohmygod! Pete! Kitty's imagination began to race away at Quicksilver-speed. He was in big trouble, he was hurt, something was really really wrong, somebody had captured him, oh no, oh no, oh no…

"Hello?" she gasped into it, clutching the black plastic like a drowning person hanging onto a lifepreserver.

"'lo, luv," came Pete's voice over the other end of the satellite connection. He sounded hoarse and exhausted, but she couldn't tell if he was in pain. At least he wasn't whispering as if somebody was nearby who could overhear. And he didn't sound worried, or scared, but that could just be bravado, to keep her from being "upset". (If it was, she'd have a long talk with him later.)

"Pete! Are you okay?" After the first word she remembered not to talk too loudly, in case he didn't want anyone to overhear. Also, she didn't want to wake the rest of Excalibur and have to deal with them right now. They'd be pretty upset if she woke them this early anyway, unless it was majorly important. 

"Yeah, fine," a raking cough stopped him from continuing.

"Pete! What happened?"

"R'lax, luv. Just breathed a little smoke's all—don't you say it. Not _cigarette_ smoke you bloody minx. It was from an explosion, so don't even start."

If she wasn't so worried, Kitty would have used the comment as the wonderful opener it was designed to be. Instead, she pressed on, trying to center herself as Logan had taught her and not give in to panic, "explosion? Are you hurt?"

"Nah; wot, an explosion? After wot I've been through with the spandex lot?" The flippant response told her all she needed to know: He was hurt, but not badly. Probably hadn't even stopped in a hospital—at least not if he could help it.

"So what happened? And how were you in an explosion? And are you sure you're okay? And—"

Pete resisted the urge to laugh at his lover's loquaciousness only because it would send him off in a coughing fit, which would worry Kitty more. "Luv, slow down. You mean you lot didn't hear yet? I woulda thought bleedin' MacTaggert or Wagner woulda had you all halfway to London already. That's why I called, so I could tell you not to worry or bother. Everything's under control—well, more or less, you know how it is. But wot I'm sayin' is that the bloody spandex brigade would only make things worse."

"What? We haven't heard anything! What are you talking about?" Kitty wasn't sure which she wanted to do more—scream at Pete to _tell_ her already or race to the computers to start figuring out what was going on and putting it all in place with a few choice keystrokes.

He couldn't help but enjoy the fact that the bleedin' omnipotent X-computer-Shi'ar-things they used hadn't caught the new already. And he also couldn't help but slightly antagonize her. "Well, how would you like to come have tea in Buckingham Palace? I know you Yanks pretend to despise royalty, but ya really drool whenever you see a rank go by…"

"What? Tea at Buckingham? I thought we were talking about explosions!"

"Well, the queen'll be there. There'll even be time for you to go shopping and get yerself a new dress fer the occasion."

"Peter Wisdom! If you don't tell me what's going on right now…"

He stifled his laughter and did as he was ordered…


	2. Two

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Tea at Buckingham

EARLIER…

Pete Wisdom cursed under his breath. _This had better be bleedin' important, Jardine, or I'll make ya regret callin' me in…_ It wasn't that Pete like Muir Island; he hated it. No traffic, no air pollution, no people, the spandex lot, and bleeding health fiends were just the beginning. But there was one thing that made Muir Island tolerable—more than tolerable: Kitty Pryde. When Jardine had called, Pete had perked up instantly. He'd assumed that Kitty would be allowed to come along. London and the love of his life; Pete would have been a happy person. Especially with a little bit of excitement, and Jardine had said that it wasn't all that dangerous and troublesome. He just needed someone to look into something for him.

When he'd told Pete that he only wanted some_one_, sparks had almost flew. But he owed Jardine, and this needed doing. Pete cursed again and walked into the office of British Intelligence. Now that Black Air was no longer existent, Pete was (not really officially, more-or-less, and unknown to the X-people) a member of plain old MI-6 again. Jardine was in criminal intelligence, but he was also a friend—one of the few Pete had that were still alive—so when he called and said that he and British Intelligence wanted help, he came. But he would still complain and mumble imprecations under his breath all he wanted. He was that kind of a person—content rated too high for innocent children to hear. 

"Jardine in, luv?" he asked Jamie, the secretary. She opened her mouth, then shut it and bit her lip. Pete was curious; you never got that kind of behavior from Jamie._ Never_. It didn't matter what you'd asked about who. If she didn't have a ready answer, she distracted you with chatter until she did. It was what made her so good at her job. That, and the fact that she was trusted explicitly and knew how to deal with snobs, scum, and spies. 

"Um…" she began, then seemed to make up her mind. "Yeah, go on in. But—be careful how you do. There're _people_ in there, if you know what I mean. And they're talking about _things_." That kind of response could mean one of two things: Jardine was either hobnobbing with the bigwigs or he had a dame in there. Pete figured on the former. Jardine wasn't the kind of guy to bring some trash into the office. Didn't make it impossible, but Pete didn't think Jardine would be doing something like that. Especially during working hours. First of all, Jardine wasn't that kind of person. Secondly, with the job he had, security was paramount. And whores made excellent assassins. Nobody ever noticed their faces, and they could walk into just about anywhere as long as they were on the arm of some suit, and they could walk _out_ of anywhere all over the world. 

"Thanks, luv. Talk to you later." 

"Uh-huh," Jamie replied, distracted as she groped for the phone and the fax machine on her desk at the insistent tones from the pieces of machinery. Wisdom proceeded to the inner office and threw the door open. It looked like a war room from one of those old war movies—detailed map of London up on the wall, all sorts of different colored pins stuck into it, papers and blueprints spread out all over the table, and lots of cigarette-smoking men and women, mostly in suits, standing around it. With reflexes that would make any spy proud, they spun towards the door, suddenly silent, right hands conspicuously free from any impediments between them and the suit jackets that were either open or tossed on chairs. Pete resisted the urge to sarcastically raise his arms and make a comment with a supreme effort of will. However, he couldn't suppress the mocking smile his thin lips twitched into. 

The shorter Jardine slipped around the others towards Pete. "Ah, Pete. So glad you could join us. We need some assistance, and I was hoping that you wouldn't mind."

"Depends," Pete replied, instantly suspicious of all the others in the room, "on just wot that is, of course." He saw a few of them relax slightly, recognizing someone who was a fellow spook, at least in mind set, and someone that Jardine knew and was on a first name basis with. 

"Yes, yes, of course," Jardine muttered affectionately. 

"Don't worry, Jardine, I'll handle it," a new voice rose from the corner of the table, in a cultured Indian accent. A tall, thin man straightened his tie and smoothly disengaged himself from the clump around the table. Dark skinned, with black hair sliding back into a widow's peak, he looked as if he'd be more at home in some government throne room as an advisor or ambassador than here in the small, smoke-filled office. The MI-5 agent took Pete by the arm and led him out of the office and down the hall a bit, to a smaller, empty room.

"Hullo, Wisdom. Haven't seen much of you lately. Having fun with the spandex brigade?"

"Cute, Pitman. Bloody cute that is. So wot's all this about, then?" 

Pitman's perfect posture sagged a little and he seemed to deflate. "We need help. MI-5 does, I mean. We haven't the foggiest what to do, how to handle this one. It's this bloody 'mutant menace' the States have cooked up over there. Someone apparently spread some of that nonsense over here. We've never had that problem—nobody really gave a damn about anyone's genes one way or the other. Oh, I know we've had our share of bigots, but nothing big, and Scotland Yard always took care of it all straight off before it could spread. And—"

"Save the bloody history lesson, mate. I know all that. Wot's the _problem_?"

Pitman's normally serious face took on an air of inconsolable pain. "It's the princes, Pete. They're saying that the princes are mutants. And worse, that they're going to 'do something about it'." 

For the briefest of moments, Pete Wisdom's extensive vocabulary failed him, as he was knocked silent. It returned two eyeblinks later, and he began to extensively and creatively curse in colors and languages that showed an extremely active imagination and broad experiences and education in gutters from all over the world.


	3. Three

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SPECIAL DISCLAIMER: "Prince Harry" is going to appear in this section. I want to say that I know absolutely nothing about him, how he acts, or what he thinks. In fact, I spent ten minutes on the Internet finding a picture and his age (I thought he was still, like, twelve or thirteen, so you can tell how very very very much I don't know). So, please, think of my "prince Harry" as a fictional character. I have no _idea_ what the prince likes to do, or what he would do in certain situations, and I do not mean to be either insulting or slanderous. Please—Prince Henry Albert Charles Davis owns Prince Harry, I'm just borrowing his name. Anybody who _does _know the prince or about him; just pretend it's somebody else. Because it is. They just have the same name—like Wisdom and Rasputin, or Iceman and Sunspot, or Thunderbird, Thunderbird, and Thunderbird. And I have nothing but respect for the royal family (I think they're pretty cool, actually) so don't get mad at me or sue or scream or flame or anything over this. Okay? And, further, I'm gonna make both the—well, _my_, in this case—princes a _loooot_ younger than they are now, like _kids_ here, because it'll make the whole story a lot easier to write—and allow for some fun moments as Pete deals with a kid…! Will that make up for it? Please? Am I forgiven?

The "war conference" had lasted into the wee hours of the morning, filled as it was by more arguments than suggestions. That's what always happened when you tried to coordinate Five and Six, as anyone in the room could attest to—shuddering—from experience. 

The Crown Pub was still open (it operated on _very_ peculiar hours, somehow oddly coinciding well with whatever hours kept by British Intelligence at the time), and Pete glanced longingly in that direction. Doyle echoed his sentiments, but they had more important work to do right now (although few of the group would have admitted that there were many things more important than a good drink without considerable duress—and as they were mostly trained in how to resist things like torture and pressuring, it would have taken _considerable_ duress to get such a statement out of them).

Thankfully, Queen Elizabeth had previously agreed to the idea of having one of her bodyguards being a telekinetic or kinetic of some sort—able to erect a shield at least large enough for her and themselves—at all times. So far, the papers hadn't caught on to it, and Elizabeth wasn't going to make any big announcement. Enough had been leaked that sooner or later (knowing news-hounds, sooner) it would get out, and it would work out better, all assumed, if it was treated as matter-of-fact by the queen. It would be a big step both for the Secret Service and the royal family, as well as for mutant-kind. They had never been persecuted the way they were in America, thanks both to the fact that they had mostly stayed out of the limelight (no Magnetos or Mystiques over here, thank you very much and cheerio) and that Excalibur had been so revered. They topped the royal family in homeland celebrity popularity polls some days, especially after a public appearance, be it at the local pub or in a climatic battle. 

Now, though, things might be heading downhill. Most Englishmen didn't give a damn about the anti-mutant neo-Nazi propaganda or their rallies, except to comment on the nuisance they were or how annoyed they were with the foolishness. But that didn't mean that, if driven to extremes, they couldn't be just as dangerous as those across the water, though they were sure to face stiffer penalties and criminal charges than those across the pond would. 

Pete muttered a curse to himself; bad enough that he had to leave Kitty behind without telling her what was going on and hardly a chance to say goodbye; now he had to help out the bleedin' Baby Sitters Club (more professionally known as MI-5)! 

Wisdom suddenly paused and glared suspiciously at the bag he was carrying. Had it just wiggled? Taking care to keep anyone from noticing, he unzipped a tiny corner of it and—damn it! Pete stifled a really nasty expletive and glared daggers at the small purple tail he saw wrapped around the extra clothes and cigarette packs. He hissed at the dragon, and Lockheed hissed back. They exchanged a few brief curses before Pete zipped the bag up again with a final threat: "you better well behave yerself, mate. Or I'll send ya to that contact I got in Iran and tell Pryde I haven't the foggiest where you went, didn't come with me, and she don't know you did, so ya'll be stuck there, got me?" Lockheed began hissing a comment to his arch-nemesis, but Pete shut the bag up and the comment off. 

* * *

Pete paused a moment in his recitation to cough rackingly, his wiry frame shaking. He tried to stifle it, so he wouldn't worry Kitty (he wasn't going to die of smoke inhalation—at least not un-nicotine-laced smoke inhalation—and there was no need to get her upset) but that left him feeling as if he'd just swallowed a grenade, or been punched in the chest by a certain Russian, so he settled for covering the phone's speaker as he coughed. 

"Pete, are you okay?" He could practically hear her lovely brown eyes widening, see her bite her divine, rosy lip, marring it with her teeth. He nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Pete! Oh my god, are you all right? Pete, what happened? Has anyone—"

Finally he mastered his throat enough to gasp out a hoarse answer: "Fine, luv. I'm fine. Jus' need ta water me throat."

Pete could hear her blinking rapidly, being careful not to cry as she worried her lip. She didn't know what had happened, and it was something like three, three-fifteen in the morning, and nobody was very in control at that (ungodly) time of day/night/hell. The only way you should ever see three in the morning was if you stayed up 'til then, and in that case the sun shouldn't see you until it was past it's zenith. That was one thing he'd never gotten across to his girlfriend: late to bed—or at least to sleep—meant late to get out of bed.

Pete took a generous drink of scotch and poured himself another glass before he resumed his narrative, only to be interrupted by his anxious lover, who knew full well that he hadn't done anything about the smoke he'd inhaled, or any other injuries he'd sustained, and wouldn't either, unless somebody physically dragged him to a doctor.   
"Pete, you _have_ had somebody look at your throat, _right_?"

"Er, uh," he hedged, "course I have, luv."

"Pete…" she said warningly.

"Well, it's not like it's bloody bad and there are lots others wot need ta be seen to first, luv. It ain't like I'm gonna pop me clogs or nothin!" he protested. 

"Pete, please," he could hear her eyes star to water, "make sure you're okay?"

"Alright, alright!" He gave in, but still tried to dodge, "just let me finish tellin' you wot happened, alright luv? Then I'll get somebody to look at me bloody throat, alright?" 

Kitty _humphed_ indignantly and he could tell that the luxurious pools of brown that were her eyes had narrowed in vexation, but she agreed, "alright," knowing it was probably the best she could get short of severe time being wasted in argument. 

Pete downed another generous portion of scotch (he was _not_ drunk and was not _getting_ drunk; adrenaline sobers you up, obviously, and besides, he hadn't had _that_ much). "Right, then, luv, here goes. So, I get the rat back to me flat without anybody bein' the wiser, than I have to bloody race to get to the scene of things. It's about lunchtime now, and Prince Harry's headin' back from somethin' or other…"

* * *

Pete was fidgeting in the back of the cab—when he noticed he was fidgeting he stopped himself. If there was something that ticked him off more, he couldn't think of it right now. He wanted a bloody fag, but the bleedin' prick of a driver wouldn't let him smoke in the bloody cab, and so he fidgeted until he noticed. He grumbled under his breath and jammed his hands into his pockets to stop himself. 

"'ey, mate, you want t' step on it, mebbe?" Pete was just beginning to complain when the first explosion went off. His mouth and the driver's hit the floor at the same instant, but Pete recovered first. He threw a handful of bills at the driver, shouted, "take the rest up with British Intelligence!" and flew out the door. He sprinted down the street towards the flames, shoving his way past a panicked crowd. 

Pete had seen the site of the explosion, and the car nearby. One of the long, black, armored cars held somebody in the royal family, and Pete would bet money that it was Harry. He'd gotten the itinerary of the family's schedules just like the rest of the "war team" and Harry was due to return to the palace from something or other right about now, for a lunch with his grandmum. 

Wisdom noticed one of the nearby cars had a gunman in the window taking aim at the window of one of the smoking wrecks. He whipped out his own gun and fired, barely having the presence of mind to remember to use more traditional fire_arms_ instead of his fire-_fingers_. The window shattered and the gunman fell back just as machine gun fire cut towards Pete. He dove for cover behind a parked car. 

"Get the bloody 'ell out o' here!" he screamed at the civilians, "British Intelligence! Move! They've bloody got guns, you gits, move it!" For once, normally dense civilians more or less listened. Either that, or they just had enough sense to run away from men with guns who charged towards exploding cars. _Yeah, right,_ Pete muttered to himself, _the bloody news-hounds'll be here with their bleedin' cameras in a minute, and heaven forbid you let any of _those_ gits get themselves killed! _

Pete carefully stuck his head out around the side of the car and ducked back as a few bullets whistled past. _Right then, no goin' that way. So…do wot they're not expectin, then, you do…_ Wisdom had instantly sunk completely back into the reflexes conditioned in him by first MI-6's training courses and later with Black Air. He leaned around the car again and fired a few bullets more or less in the direction of the attacker and was surprised to hear a wet cut-off scream, shrill above the licking flames. He dodged back behind the car to avoid the return fire and snapped off a shot aimlessly, hoping with the back of his mind that there weren't any completely brain-dead civilians who would stand and watch or attempt to run through the crossfire of a firefight. He sprung from the other end of the car at a dead run and rolled behind the next convenient piece of cover: a hastily abandoned taxicab. Pete glanced around, trying to figure out some sort of _intelligent_ plan instead of reaction on just plain carefully trained-instinct. His blue eyes slitted as he saw the space around the taxicab. It should be large enough that if it…Yes, it was.

The taxicab went up in roar of flames and the bullets abruptly stopped. Two of the masked figures looked at each other, then back at the flaming remains of the cab. They exchanged a shrug and moved to help their other three compatriots with the cars that had been the object of their attack. 

They never saw it coming. One minute, they were carefully scanning the city for any signs of another attack, the next large fingers of flame flashed through them. Neither had time to scream before they were down, and the larger one's low moans couldn't be heard over the roars of the flames filling the streets.

It was approximately twenty-five seconds since the attack had begun; too much time, and the guard and police of the royal family and Britain would be here. Two other attackers had set up defensive positions that were holding a few bobbies down on the other side of the exploded vehicles. Another three were keeping the civilians as well as the armed forces slowly racing towards the scene from getting close. The three that were checking the cars had already dispatched four security guards with their guns, and two of the cars were smoking ruins from which it was doubtful anyone could emerge alive. 

Pete ignored the five that were looking outwards for trouble and focused on the three at the cars. One of those cars had Prince Harry in it (he hoped it wasn't one of the two that were destroyed) and he was in mortal danger from these deranged terrorists. Pete crawled on his belly towards the first figure, trusting in the smoke and chaos to keep him from immediate detection. He crouched behind the first smoking wreak that had once been a heavily armored car, capable of withstanding the impact of a rocket launcher, and wondered just what sort of weapon had been used to get this kind of damage, and where and how it had been secured and then transported secretly. He filed the question away for the debriefing later, concentrating on what was more important for the moment. Peering around the body of a former MI-5 bodyguard he'd drunk with in the Crown, Wisdom searched for the first target. A thin hotknife burned from his outstretched hand through the right shoulder of the disguised man. A high, bloodcurdling scream broke through the chaos and shouts all around as the man fell. Guns in ready-to-fire positions, the two others came around the side of the car they were prying their way into, senses and weapons on a hair-trigger, instantly alert, all of their extensive training coming back to them. It wasn't a complete waste of money and time. One went "high" the other "low" and the high one caught a flame in the head. He wouldn't be doing anything else to anyone else. 

The other one escaped by rolling back behind the car body's covering protection. Whether he knew that Wisdom couldn't risk frying anyone still hiding inside or whether it was sheer survival instinct dodging for the nearest cover, Pete didn't know. He cursed creatively, wondering how to get that one. He saw a small blond head try to peer out the window towards him, only to be yanked back down as bullets attacked the shatterproof window on the other side of the car. As he heard a small explosion he swore and leapt forward. Without realizing how he crossed the small piece of smoking, open street, he was suddenly at the car. He banged on the door and saw the boy's frightened face peering at him. He couldn't see out the window at the other side because the black-suited bodies of two MI-5 officers blocked the view. They were looking the other way, towards the door that even now had to be wrestling open. 

Wisdom melted the door latch and handle—along with a good portion of it—off, then yanked it open as a hail of bullets attacked the two men. He grabbed a young hand and ripped the prince out of the car. Pete yanked the teen onto the ground, then dragged him to his feet. 

"MI-6!" he yelled at the young royal. "C'mon!"

The prince, whether he believed Pete or not, had little choice in the matter as the two sprinted a short distance. Pete then slammed Harry to the hot street again when they reached the smoldering wreck. Bullets flew overhead seconds after they'd dropped. Pete swore, a creative Arabic expression that the prince had never heard before but which was remembered automatically for later use and definition. Shoving the young prince further under cover, Wisdom scanned the area for an escape route.

"Alright, mate," he spoke loudly to be heard over the chaos. "When I tell you, run straight into that building and don't look back. Got me?" The prince nodded agreement. "No matter wot bloody happens, yer gonna get in there and find cover. Don't come out unless you know it's safe, right?" Harry nodded again.

"Yes, sir," he replied, doing his best to be the brave royal figure. 

"'Sir' nothing, mate. The name's Wisdom but don't let it fool you." Pete looked around. _Damn damn damn damn! _He wasn't used to kids, especially not trying to put them at ease during a terrorist attack. He wished Kitty were here—hell, he'd almost wish for _Braddock_ to be here so he could hand the kid off to someone who could presumably deal with it better. The last time Pete had been in close contact with kids had probably been before he'd joined MI-6—certainly before he'd transferred to Black Air. 

Pete shoved the boy into the hot asphalt, forcing Harry to squint his eyes shut, and fired a large blast of his mutant power into the building a few meters away. Harry lifted his head too late to see from where the blast had come, although his eyes flicked to Pete suspiciously. "Now—move it!" 

Both leaped from their cover and raced across the bare ground, Pete a few steps behind the young prince, keeping himself between the royal and his attackers, waiting each second for the shot that was sure to arrive between his shoulderblades or in the back of his head. Somehow, they crossed the short distance alive, and threw themselves into the door, smashing it open where Pete's hotknives had melted the hinges off. They dove to the ground and rolled away from the entrance as bullets finally caught up, riddling the brick exterior of the empty shop. Pete was impressed; Harry was handling the situation well, not panicking, his reactions on par with most beginning-operatives.

"Good job," Pete told him tersely. He didn't really know what else to say or another way to say it. It wasn't like he had contact with the royal family, and, as he often said, tact is for those not witty enough to be sarcastic. God-effing-dammit he didn't know how to deal with kids! He shunted that aside. Not time now. He'd just have to try to keep the bugger alive and hope that'd be enough. Let someone else patch his head up if it needed it. Not his job, he couldn't do it for shite. _Alright,_ he thought, training firmly in control, _now what?_

He realized he didn't have the faintest idea. 


End file.
